


A Collection of Ficlets

by PandoraCulpa



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-17
Updated: 2010-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:30:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandoraCulpa/pseuds/PandoraCulpa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><i>Written for the FMA Fic Contest's 5th challenge, with the prompt of 'Sin'.</i></p>
    </blockquote>





	1. No Absolution

**Author's Note:**

> _Written for the FMA Fic Contest's 5th challenge, with the prompt of 'Sin'._

_Written for the FMA Fic Contest's 5th challenge, with the prompt of 'Sin'._

 _  
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* * *

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The war is over, and the quiet is appalling.

After the hot and bloody frontlines in Ishval, Eastern is a surreal oasis of the commonplace. Hawkers cry their wares in the markets, while men and women walk without fear down the streets. There are no scorch marks on storefronts, no stains darkening the streets, and when the children laugh as they race past him Lt. Colonel Mustang can't help but flinch away.

It is hard to adapt to the idea of moving through the city without a drawn gun, or hands poised to snap a holocaust of flame into existence. He takes to using the car and driver due his rank to travel the few blocks from his flat to his office, because he can't stand the empty feeling at his back when he walks. The desert has burned all his softness and idealism away, leaving behind something base and barren and after months of living a hairsbreadth from death, he finds that slipping back into life is not unlike trying to put on his old wardrobe. It simply doesn't fit him any longer.

But he lives yet, and so he learns to ignore the cars that backfire on the street outside, not throwing himself to the floor to avoid a hail of bullets that isn't coming. Months pass, and while it becomes easier for him to pretend he's forgotten, the nightmares never leave him. Every person, every family, every city consumed in his flames live again in the silence of the sleeping compound; every fire in every grate is a whisper of the orders he followed. And again he turns away, washing it down with the burn of strong scotch or brandy.

Each time someone calls him the Hero of Ishval, another piece of him twists and dies.

It's so easy to turn his anger toward a corrupt regime, a ruthless Fuhrer. Simple to despise men like the Crimson Alchemist, with their love of violence and contempt for the weak. So many people to blame, but when he wakes in the middle of the night, desert heat beating back the chill in the air and the mortars thumping out the rhythm of his heartbeat, when the screams and explosions drive him awake, it is his own face he curses in the dimly lit mirror, and his own hands shaking with guilt.

And in the dark of the night he knows, he knows without excuse or deniability, that the blame lies with him. Then he hates himself until all his other hatreds pale against the pitch of his self-loathing. Let others cry ignorance; _he_ _knew_. Beneath the desert sun, standing before cities turned to charnel houses, he saw the evils being done and the perversity in the logic of that war. He knew, then as he does now, the terrible path on which the military had lined up its men, and he knows who paid the ultimate price.

His hand let loose the flames that killed Ishvalans by the thousands, but it is not that action that haunts him so. Rather it is his inaction- his failure to protest the dreadful orders that came down, to willfully disobey the demands that he strike even the civilians, even the children. He was the dutiful soldier, unquestioning and most terribly skilled, withholding the rebellion his heart urged, and that dire and silent sin will live within him forever, staining his soul in blood and ash and everlasting regret.

Ishval is silent now, but the guns in his mind will never cease.


	2. The Lieutenant's Reply

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Placed second in the FMA Fic Contest's 6th prompt challenge, 'Giving Orders'. The complete title is _actually_ '_The Lieutenant's Reply To the Insubordinate _', but unfortunately the field for the chapter title wasn't large enough, and I had to cut it a little short._

_  
_

* * *

_  
_

"She's gonna kill you, y'know."

Looking up from the newly-lit cigarette, Havoc shrugged and took a puff. "She's not here," he pointed out. "And besides, these are just wargames."

Breda shook his head, hunkering down behind a tree with his rifle across his knees. "That's not the point. Hawkeye told you not to smoke, and if she finds out there's gonna be hell to pay."

"Aw, c'mon. No one's gonna see the smoke. It's a dumb rule, right?"

"Not my call, buddy. I just think you oughta do what the Lieutenant told you." Breda gave the taller man a smirk and a wink. "Self-preservation."

Havoc took another deep, smoke-filled breath and grinned like a naughty schoolboy. "She can't punish what she doesn't see. You're not gonna tell on me, are ya?"

"No, but..."

The lit end of the cigarette abruptly exploded, showering the Lieutenant with sparks and tobacco. Havoc yelped in surprise, the ruined butt falling from his lips and a few moments later the muffled cough of a silenced gun sounded in the distance. Breda nearly choked with laughter while Havoc cursed in frustration about goddamn _scoped_ rifles.

"Wha- what'd I tell ya?" the red-haired man wheezed between heaving guffaws. "Now she'll be _twice_ as mad, 'cause she'll have to change positions! You're a dead man!"

Havoc stared mournfully down at the shredded remains of his cigarette, but then brightened. "The condemned get one last smoke, right?"


	3. So Comes the Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Written for the FMA Fic Contest's 7th prompt, 'Rain'. Won first place._

It seemed that the worst points in his life were inextricably bound to the patter of water against rooftops and soft ground, and every dull-ceilinged day where the clouds hung low and heavy sent his mood spiraling into sullen melancholy. Nothing, no matter what the old farm men said, nothing good came of showers or storms; no pale shoots of hope bloomed in his life from such nourishment. No matter what song others heard, the only words the rain spoke to him were of pain.

There had been a storm the night of the failed transmutation. As rain lashed the windows his brother's face had disappeared before his terrified eyes, the agony of that loss overwhelming the sickening sacrifice of his leg, his arm. A crack of lightning lit the room, and he thought the moan of the wind was the voice of the twisted thing that was meant to be his mother, dying once again on the floor.

A steady, cold rain fell on the day he learned of Nina Tucker's death, the same day he fought Scar for the first time. Lying stunned in the street, ruined pieces of his automail arm glittering wetly about him, his brother blasted open and defenseless and beyond his reach, Edward felt the heavy hand of mortality upon him. Every drop that pelted down upon him whispered accusations in their rhythm: impotent, helpless. Such a small, weak man, to think he can save anyone, when he can't even save himself.

The rainfall came once more with malicious certainty the day he'd dug up the grave of the thing that he and Al had made, the day that his father had walked away, yet again (the day he'd arrived had been bright with sunshine, and he'd not forgiven the bastard for _that_ , either). His tears were hidden in the downpour, water washing the taste of vomit from his lips as he held up strands of hair that could not possibly have belonged to his mother. All their losses, all their pains, and it had never been her. They had been wrong from the start.

And now today- the Promised Day. The sky hangs heavy as an implication, thunder growling deep in its throat, and despite his hard-won knowledge, despite the experience he's earned, despite his hopes and yearning and heartfelt penitence, Edward is afraid. Because the rains are coming. Bearing his sins and his memories, his weaknesses and guilt, ready to drown his tentative hopes in a deluge of loss, a lifetime of shortcomings. Darkening the day, a chill breeze moaning like a lost soul, the traitorous rains are coming.

The rains are coming, the time is at hand, and God is poised to spit on him once again.


	4. Something Beautiful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Won first place for the FMA Fic Contest's 8th prompt, 'Chimera'._

* * *

It really was beautiful. The most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Not easy, of course, but nothing worth doing ever was. And it was right, to work so hard to create something so wondrous. Fitting. He didn't mind the hard work, the late nights, eyes burning from staring at tiny lines and words in decaying texts. It was worth it all, in the end.

Flash melting into flesh, separate skins grafting together and forming not a patchwork, but a whole; complete and new and _beautiful_.

There were failures along the way, oh yes, but successes as well. The things that shrieked and gibbered and died taught him as well as the things that lived and, after their own fashion, prospered. All is knowledge, and he sought after those lessons with greedy hunger, to make beautiful things, things that all would look upon and desire. Things that he could say, unequivocally, were his.

Blood flowing to blood, bone knitting to bone. Tissue and hair and teeth.

Simple things, at first. Simple creatures begetting other simple creatures; useless, but they taught him the way. Then more complicated things, more disparate things, challenging himself and his art and still he learned. Soon he could use large beasts, creating dazzling complex combinations, but still he was not satisfied. There had to be more. Better. He wanted something _special_.

The product is nothing more than the sum of its parts. To make something beautiful, he had to use something beautiful.

So he did.

And the result, ah!, it was glorious! Deftly woven, perfectly joined; it was a masterpiece. It was magnificent, the culmination of all his dreams and aspirations, worthy of the praise it rightly accrued. He basked in its splendor, more proud of this achievement than anything else he had done his entire life. _This_ is what he was meant to do! To create things of beauty and wonder, more remarkable than anything else alive. His heart soared.

But his masterwork languished, and died.

And he was left somewhat disgraced.

There was a flaw in his design, there _had_ to be, it was the only reasonable explanation that he could see for his failure. Such a wonderful creation; it shouldn't have died. He spent longer hours in his labs, studied and postulated, experimented...

But his patrons frowned, unimpressed. What is the use? they asked him, mouths twisting, and he wanted to shout at them, you don't understand! Use- what use? The thing itself is the purpose! The advance of science, the art! Isn't it incredible? Isn't it divine?

Blood and bone; hair and hide. What did he have, that could impress upon them how incredible his art truly was? How could he show them that all he wanted, all he had ever wanted, was to make something truly beautiful?

Time pressed upon him. Flash and sinew, organs twining. The loss of his lab, his last chance, loomed. It had to be done, it had to be now. They were watching him, he could feel their eyes, their spies. It had to be now; he had no more time.

Something beautiful...

It surpassed his first work, a fact that both surprised and gratified him, and it was _perfect_. It was whole and complete, and indisputably his own. And it was beautiful. He knew it would have to be, from its elements, but it was so immeasurably lovely that tears overfilled his eyes, ran down his cheeks. So beautiful. How could anyone deny his work now?

The other alchemist, the one planted by the Colonel, arrived and with pride he showed him his creation. _Look_ , he wanted to crow, _see what I have done_. He hadn't failed, like the rash, genius boy- he had surpassed, flown clear above all others in this work, he stood at the right hand of god and his creation was _beautiful_...

Gold eyes, hard and implacable, stared at him in horror. "What happened to Nina and Alexander?"

And the crushing realization- _he doesn't understand, he doesn't see..._

"I hate perceptive brats like you," Shou Tucker sighed.


	5. Something To Talk About

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Written for the FMA Fic Contest's 11th prompt, 'Gamble'._

* * *

Roy knows he's in for trouble when Ed shows up at the office, face dark and thoughtful, kicking the door shut behind him. Laying aside his pen, the Colonel steeples his fingers and gives the young man a tired, caustic smirk. "I wasn't aware that we had an appointment," he remarks, and Ed glares at him.

"Fuck your appointments," Fullmetal growls, crossing his arms across his chest. "Have you heard the rumors?"

Of course he has heard the rumors; he could hardly have avoided them. And they are practically the last thing he wants to discuss with Edward.

"I hear lots of rumors," he answers vaguely, feigning interest in a report on cafeteria expenses. "Most of them don't mean anything."

 _Please, just let it go..._

Ed does no such thing. "You _know_ the ones I mean," he accuses, ripping away the papers that Roy is holding like a shield. "The ones about me and you."

Roy lifts a brow in a last ditch attempt at playing ignorant. "You and I?"

Ed's scowl makes it clear he's not buying it. "Us. Together." The scowl quickly morphs into a feral grin. "Like, _carnally_."

Sighing, Roy bows his head. "I had nothing to do with them, if that's what this is about. I don't know where they originated, but I'll do my best to stop..."

A hard metal hand planted on his chest stops him. Ed's eyes are almost glowing as he stares down into Roy's confusion. "That's not what this is about."

 _Oh hell._ "Then what?"

Ed smiles, and Roy's blood runs cold. "Doesn't seem fair, does it? I mean, we're accused of doing all kinds of shit we haven't, but they talk about it all the same."

Roy can feel his body responding to Ed's proximity, and curses his helpless attraction to the young man. He has sworn never to act upon it, never to give truth to the rumors that have circled ever since Edward reenlisted, but this is testing his resolve. "There's always talk in the military," he replies faintly. "They gossip worse than a knitting circle. Nothing will come of it."

"Yeah, see, that's the problem." Ed's eyes are predatory, smoky. Roy can practically feel his skin burn beneath their gaze. "Nothing coming of it. Bein' scared to do anything."

He moves back, and Roy can breathe again, but the air seems to solidify in his lungs as Ed presses his hands together and touches the door, sealing it. "The way I see it," he continues in a conversational tone as he turns back, "is that if they're gonna talk anyway, we might as well get something out of it."

Roy's heart is beating fit to burst from his chest. "The risks..."

"Are more than worth it," Ed replies, then he's _right there_ , arms fitting close around his neck, and Roy suddenly isn't capable of disagreeing.


	6. Burnout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Won first place for the FMA Fic Contest's 30th prompt, 'Candle'._

He shouldn't worry. He knew that. He had other obligations, and it wasn't like his concern was wanted.

But Roy couldn't stop himself.

There were too many holes in the reports he received, too many injuries glossed over. Requests for explanations were met with curses, or a door slamming heavily against the jamb. Attempts to assist were greeted with suspicion, sometimes outright hostility, and he ground his teeth, wondering when the boy would ever _trust_ him.

He'd seen enough to recognize the path that Fullmetal was walking. No, not walking- _running_ , sprinting headlong into more danger than he knew, and if Edward would only stop and _look_ , then maybe he'd see what lay all around him, closing in...

So he demanded accountability. Ed snarled and snapped at him like a tethered dog. He threatened to limit his funding, and Ed nearly leaped over the desk for his throat. He flat-out ordered Ed to fall into line, to restrain himself, to goddamn stop and _think_ sometimes.

It made no difference whatsoever.

There was an old saying he'd heard while growing up. It came to mind whenever Ed stormed through his office, larger than life, loud enough to make his temples throb and so vibrant his heart ached with helpless fear. It sang in his mind, when he thought about where all of this boundless energy was leading, when he thought about things like fate and destiny.

The candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long.

And Edward Elric _blazed_.


End file.
